The gears rev taking the hill, and the metal bars and crossbars that will rise into staging, a giant Meccano set, thunk and roll, banging and clanging the trunk in which happy retrievers have stood, ears blown back, in which sheets of plywood have lain next to big black toolboxes, been shoved aside by cardboard boxes, been stained by ducks shot down, their blood forming runnels all the way home from the gut.

Past the old Arms Park, past Wood Street School and Temperance Town, under Wood Street Bridge (meth-drinkers' hangout) then Penarth Road Bridge, the mighty Curran's factories looming, around to the finishing post beneath Clarence Bridge, these days a colourless crossing compared to the giant Meccano set of yesterday.

Blubbing Bubba Watson hated his recent experience in Paris, bemoaning the lack of discipline in French crowd control, the whiff of garlic in the wind and apparently believing the Eiffel Tower to be a giant Meccano set.

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